


Here Comes the Sun (And I Say, It's Alright)

by unweavetherainbows



Category: VIXX
Genre: M/M, for those who came here for wonsik im rly sorry, hes only in here for like 2 seconds :((, more wonsik next time!!, this is optimal for viewing through Platonic Goggles as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:45:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unweavetherainbows/pseuds/unweavetherainbows
Summary: Taekwoon knows the pale curve of the moon, the way frost settles into the edges of trees, how the wind wraps around his shoulders and stays there. He's the first to confront the snow of winter and the last to smile at the skies of summer.But on a frigid Thurday in January, Taekwoon comes to realize that maybe, just maybe, the heat isn't so bad after all.





	Here Comes the Sun (And I Say, It's Alright)

**Author's Note:**

> so basically, i watched scentist and my. life. CHANGED.  
> not only is it literally such an incredible song (and album), it got me into vixx - and neo. I've never seen a connection like theirs before and it inspired the shit out of me. also taek is fascinating and hakyeon is a god. (stan talent stan vixx)
> 
> I hope you enjoy! comments are always appreciated <3

Jung Taekwoon was nineteen when he realized that Cha Hakyeon was _really fucking weird._

The Thursday leading up to the moment he met Hakyeon had been normal. Super Normal, in fact, with a capital N. Normal was great, because normal meant Taekwoon knew what to expect. Surprises were for losers, because when you don’t know what’s coming, that’s when you fuck up and look like an idiot. He learned this the hard way, when a few of the losers in his graduating class decided to surprise him with a clown on their last day and he, out of shock, punched it in the face. Fuming and humiliated, Taekwoon refused to apologize to the clown because _you just don’t fuck with him like that, okay?_

So no, surprises weren’t his thing. Unfortunately, surprises seemed to be Cha Hakyeon’s _only thing._

Taekwoon had always disliked Thursdays. They were a reminder of the monotony of the week, one step too close to Friday for fun and too far away from Wednesday for mid-week satisfaction. Thursdays were barely any better than Tuesdays, and Tuesdays are the worst.

On that soon-to-be-not-boring Thursday in January, rain fell in sheets from the post-midnight sky, blanketing their basement studio until all Taekwoon could hear was his own laboured breathing, his pulse hammering in his ears, the chatter of the other trainees, the wind howling outside.

He’s already been here two immeasurably long weeks and he has yet to make a single friend. For someone like Taekwoon, where Friend is his own personal F-word, this usually wouldn’t be a huge deal. But not having any F-words means that when he’s falling behind and dropping _real f-words_ left and right, there’s no one to pull him back up.

 _But who really needs friends?_ He doesn’t really want a friend, but he also doesn’t really want to ask the choreographer for help, either. Asking for help is an immediate sign to everyone else that you’re lagging, that you’re weak. And Jung Taekwoon may not be much, a singer carving a place out of a soccer player-shaped boy, but he’s not _weak_.  
Frustration pools in the pit of his stomach, fists curling as he swears harshly enough to embarrass even the swashbuckinglest of pirates, missing yet another step of the routine. _Get it together, Jung Idiot. What the fuck is wrong with you._

Everyone else is taking five, languishing around the edges of the practice room, tossing water bottles around and laughing in that stupid facade of comradery trainees maintain until they debut.  
He doesn’t have time for it. Tuning out their mindless noise, Taekwoon hones in on the rhythm of his movements, focusing on each snap of his hips and flick of his wrist. He can’t afford comradery. He can’t afford to stop. He can’t afford much of anything, really- his trainee allowance is pretty shitty and the meals he can buy with it are even shittier.  
But this contract, this dream, it’s the only thing he has. Taekwoon will dance until he dies because he’s not giving up without a fight. He keeps going, almost at his breaking point, sweat rolling down his temples in ringlets and shirt beginning to cling to his back, when the door to the studio suddenly springs open and the chatter comes to an abrupt halt.

Taekwoon looks up, and despite the torrential downpour outside, stares directly into the face of the fucking sun.

If someone asked him today, he’d deny it, but Hakyeon maintains that when Taekwoon saw him for the first time, his mouth fell open, just a little bit. Taekwoon, blushing furiously, will thump a laughing Hakyeon on the back, hiding his face behind an embarrassed hand.

When their eyes meet, Taekwoon’s first inclination arrives as how to fucking weird this newcomer is, because he sees Taekwoon and smiles. Lip-splittingly, face-stretchingly, earth-shatteringly _smiles_.  
His confusion only grows as he allots him his cursory Jung Scowl, furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes, and w _hat the fuck this guy just keeps smiling._  
No one, not any of his high school teachers, any of the other trainees, not the _damn CEO of their company_ , had smiled at him upon their first meeting. But he here was, the sun himself, barfing unicorns and rainbows onto Taekwoon’s stupid face like he had made it his personal mission to make him happy.

Taekwoon can’t bear the heat any longer, so he tears his gaze away, embarking on a staring contest with the floor. Wow. Has everyone ever noted how interesting floors are? Super interesting. The interestingest. Totally more interesting than how the guy, in a manner that could only be described as _strutting_ , makes his way over the where the choreographer is standing, extending a hand and yet another too-big smile.

“Everyone, please say hello to Cha Hakyeon,” the choreographer says, an arm slung around what was apparently Cha Hakyeon’s shoulders. He’s tall, slight in the way that most trainees are, but his face is almost like a - _what are those things called?_ \- like a cherub. You’d think it impossible, but somehow this garden baby angel of a man has puffy cheeks with a neck that would make any self-respectable giraffe jealous. And by god, somehow, it _works_. If Taekwoon were a pre-pubescent thirteen year old girl with a penchant for reading romance novels, he would call him tall, dark and handsome. But he’s a Manly Man who sticks to the post-pubescent section of manga and comic books, so he’s just gonna go with baby-faced garden rock.

“Hakyeon’s been a trainee here longer than most of you, so he’s come by to help us out today. Be kind to him, he has a hand in the evaluations.” Baby-Faced Garden Rock laughs, waving his hands in dismissal as Taekwoon’s ire only grows. Not only is this lawn ornament apparently best friends with their choreographer, but he’s important enough of a trainee to have a say in the _evaluations_? Irritation simmers beneath his skin, threatening to boil over when Hakyeon opens his mouth to speak. Taekwoon half-expects a leprechaun or some other obnoxiously happy creature to pop out from between his teeth.

“Hello everyone! As you heard already, I’m Cha Hakyeon. It’s really nice to meet all of you, and I hope that we can work together well. I’m excited to see what you guys have so far!” Hakyeon speaks like he’s holding a spoon of yogurt to the roof of his mouth, melodious and wonderful.  
It’s disgusting. Taekwoon stops listening, watching the ridiculously soft angles of Hakyeon’s face make words, his teeth shining as he speaks, hands moving as he addresses the room.  
He must have been staring, because another trainee whose name Taekwoon thinks is Wonsik pokes him in the side, jerking his head towards where Hakyeon and their choreographer are standing. Taekwoon whips around, glaring at Wonsik, who eyes widen as he puts his hands up in defense, backing away towards another trainee. Taekwoon’s confused. What was that fo-

“Perfect! Since no one else volunteered, Jung Taekwoon will be our first example. Taekwoon, please come to the front.” What? When did that happen? Everyone is staring and his face is warming, sweat beading at his temple, chest heaving because _they’re all looking_ , he hates this why can’t the ground open up and swallow him so he can _fucking die-_

A warm hand clasps around his wrist, startling Taekwoon. His heart is pounding, staring into the smiling face of Hakyeon, hand shooting out to grab his shoulder in alarm. The room is silent, save for Taekwoon’s quick breaths and the chatter of his thoughts. Hakyeon takes one look into his eyes, his creased brow, the moisture gathered on his face and the noise in his mind just...stops.

Hakyeon releases his hand and Taekwoon snatches his arm back like he’s been burned, hastily turning away from him. This is why surprises can shove a (Taekwoon’s) foot up their (admittedly nice) ass and go fuck themselves. Hell, stuff a banana in his hand and call him Curious George because he still has no idea what in god’s name is going on.

“Perfect! If you don’t mind, I’ll take it from here.” Hakyeon’s voice is still smooth, but it retains an authoritative edge as he commands the room, and it shows in the way that the other trainees fully turn toward him, listening.

“Can everyone see? Taekwoon and I are going to demonstrate the choreography.” They’re going to _what_? Taekwoon’s pulse quickens again, and this rate he’s going to die at thirty of a an aneurysm or a heart attack. Probably both.

Before he can really register what’s going on, Hakyeon’s firm grasp is on his hips, guiding him into position. The music cues, and he’s is still frozen as Hakyeon begins the opening steps of their choreography. He throws Taekwoon a sideways glance and his stomach swoops in time with the music, feet picking up the rhythm as he finally starts dancing.

People have said many things about Taekwoon, but no one said he wasn’t a stubborn bitch. He gladly accepts this title, wears it like a crown and flaunts it for the world to see, but he’s also willing to admit that being more stubborn than even the most determined mule can get him into trouble. Sometimes.

He pretends Hakyeon isn’t even there -Hakyeon who? Taekwoon doesn’t know of a Hakyeon- and dances beside him, not with him, matching his movements to the song. They reach the part of the routine that Taekwoon was having trouble with, and a muttered _shit_ escapes his mouth as he messes up the same footwork sequence that he always has. Taekwoon grimaces as he notices Hakyeon noticing, because He Will Not Be Bested Today, especially by a freaking forest fairy. Hakyeon waves a hand, and the music comes to a stop. Shit, shit, shit.

Taekwoon can’t move, the eyes of the room are on him, his feet are shackled to the floor and he’s cursing every decision in his life that lead up to this moment because why the _fuck_ did he think he could do this, he’s a singer for chrissakes not a fucking _b-boy_ -

Moving Taekwoon’s hands slightly to the left and kicking his foot out to the right, Hakyeon repositions him, gentle yet assertive, voice even as he explains to the room where his mistake was.

Taekwoon’s heart rate slows, breaths steadying and face cooling as Hakyeon gestures for the music to come back on, continuing to dance like nothing happened, like Taekwoon didn’t just let Hakyeon broadcast his failure to the rest of his competitors like it was the 6 o’clock news.

Taekwoon looks, he really _looks_ at him, and the sun shines bright, the same slow, easy smile on his face. Hakyeon catches his gaze, mouth widening as his eyes split into soft crescents, and the burn comes softly, like a warm palm pressed against his wintry skin. Taekwoon doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to contort his face into the shape of Hakyeon’s smile, so he just blinks back at him, jerking back into position.

A single correction, too minor for the common eye to catch, and the rest of the choreography flows like clockwork, neither missing a beat.

The song continues, and without making the conscious decision to do so, he finds himself dancing with, not beside Hakyeon, their movements synchronized. The music quiets as the song winds to a close, and Taekwoon is temporarily blinded as Hakyeon flashes him a grin, giving him a thumbs up. He stares back at him in an expressionless response, and somehow Hakyeon is unfazed, clasping his hands together as he spins to face the rest of the trainees.

“Everyone, Taekwoon did a great job! Let’s clap for him.” Hakyeon winks at him as the trainees muster up a polite round of applause, and Taekwoon thinks he hears Wonsik whooping from the back. He’s doubled over, face beet red because _all of you need to stop looking at me, goddamnit, I wasn’t even that great_. Hakyeon claps a hand on his back and it burns, his long fingers igniting Taekwoon’s skin through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Practice continues on as usual, except it doesn’t. Taekwoon watches him as he dances, and it’s not without annoyance that he notes Hakyeon’s limbs move with the ease of a born dancer, the arc of his body fluid and determined, nary a finger landing out of place. Hakyeon is in complete and total control of himself down to a cellular level, knowing how to make full use of his space. Movement flows through him in a way that’s in stark contrast to someone like Taekwoon, who had the rhythm beaten into him after endless hours of practice and still hunches over when dancing, body not yet used to inheriting space.

Hakyeon makes his way around the room, helping the other guys out one by one, but somehow he meets Taekwoon’s eye every time he surreptitiously looks up to see what Hakyeon’s doing. He can feel Hakyeon’s grin after he ducks his head in embarrassment, face blooming red as Taekwoon looks for reassurance in their crusty floor. _I don’t know either_ , the floor says back at him, and he curses Hakyeon as he continues to dance, pointedly not looking in his direction.

The thing with the sun is that even if you can’t see it, you can still feel its heat. The rain thrums on the cold earth outside, but the air in their studio is as thick as the humidity of Seoul in mid-July. And Taekwoon is probably going insane, but the lights almost seem...brighter? Either that, or Cha Hakyeon has absorbed the entirety of the sun, their planet is about to enter a solar winter and everyone outside of this room is headed for imminent death. Their choreographer is actually smiling at them for once, the atmosphere seems less competitive, less tense than it always is. Taekwoon is shocked to find that when he touches his face, it somehow isn’t in Jung Scowl formation.

A solar winter is preferable to the alternative, which is that Cha Hakyeon wasn’t immediately repulsed by Jung Taekwoon and somehow actually seems to. Like. Him? Rather than accept this, Taekwoon would gladly choose death, which is the less painful option. At least Taekwoon actually understands death.

It’s one-thirty a.m, and they’re wrapping up, trainees stooping to grab water bottles and mp3s cluttered around the edges of the studio because their company won’t let them have phones.  
He’s purposely turned his back to the room, letting everyone else leave first like he always does, because that way he gets to walk home alone. He likes the world when it’s quiet, when it’s just him and the night, gravel crunching beneath his solitary feet with no surprises named Hakyeon that can pop up and ruin a perfectly good, boring Thursday.

Taekwoon is unwrapping his headphones from around his iPod, trying to decide if he’s more in the mood for Bach’s Concerto No. 5 or Evanescence’s Wake Me Up -he’s a complicated guy, okay?- when a warm hand taps him on the shoulder. Maybe if Taekwoon remains completely still, he’ll go away. He’ll just become a statue. Life as marble wouldn’t be so bad, museums would be cool to live in anyways-

“You did really well today,” Hakyeon says from behind him, and Taekwoon is dripping in honey, his voice coating him thickly and refusing to let him breathe. Taking a deep breath, he turns, slowly enough to demonstrate annoyance at being interrupted at doing- well, doing nothing. But compliments are his pollen and Taekwoon’s life is one perpetual allergy season.

He meets Hakyeon’s eyes, and all he can do is jerkily nod, gaze dropping back to the floor. Hakyeon is persistent, though, and grasps Taekwoon’s shoulder, hand steady and sure. He looks at Taekwoon like he knows him, not staring at him but seeing _through_ him.

“I’m being serious. You’re a much better dancer than you think you are.” The sun smiles at him, and Taekwoon suddenly remembers why he prefers the moon. If you stare at the sun for too long, you’ll go blind.

He purses his lips in response, looking anywhere but at Hakyeon, and Taekwoon can’t help it when his shoulders slump a little as he waits for it. Waits for the tired sigh, the dropped hand, a resigned patter of footsteps as disinterested feet inevitably walk away from him, his shoulder cooling from the abrupt lack of contact.

He knows it’s coming because it’s never failed to come. As a silent basket case, he’s not worth it. At least loud basket cases are entertaining. The only thing Hakyeon’s ever heard him whisper is shit.

He waits for it, and waits for it, and then only confusion arrives when nothing happens. The weight on his shoulder remains, a constant pressure, and he’s not left behind in the sun’s shadow. Slowly, Taekwoon looks up, and Hakyeon is still standing there, still holding onto him, still smiling. What...is happening.

“Ah, I guess you don’t know that though, huh? Good dancers always seem to think they’re bad ones. We’ll have to work on that,” Hakyeon says knowingly, hand falling to wrap around Taekwoon’s. “I like you, Jung Taekwoon. Let’s meet again.”

Taekwoon’s mouth falls open as Hakyeon salutes him, letting go of his hand and turning on his heel, doing his stupid strut thing again to catch up with the other trainees. Taekwoon’s brain is short circuiting (not that he had much of one to begin with) because Cha Hakyeon- Cha Hakyeon didn’t give up on him. In fact, he did the opposite. In the words of the aesthetically distressed millennial that he is, Taekwoon is properly _shook_.

He gathers his stuff, plugging in his headphones and turning up the volume to its max. Heading up the stairs into the damp night, Taekwoon starts on his way back to the dorms. Thankfully, his walk is blessedly free of other trainees and smiling Hakyeons, giving him time to figure out What in The Hell Just Happened.  
Jung Taekwoon, silent bitch extraordinaire, with a perpetual Can-I-Speak-To-Your-Manager face and anger issues to rival the Hulk’s, has just been told by the _fucking sun_ that he wants to see him again. No one, _no one_ , has lasted through a first encounter with him and immediately requested another. Even his own mother probably took one look at him and tried to push him back into the womb.

No, Cha Hakyeon isn’t _nice_ \- this confirms it. Cha Hakyeon is really fucking weird. The sun is hot on a Thursday night in January, and his skin prickles with the cold it left behind. Taekwoon knows the cold. Embodies the cold. _Is_ the cold.

But maybe, just maybe, despite how much he’d rather eat his own arm before admitting it, Taekwoon doesn’t really mind the heat.


End file.
